


A Growing Lack of Disgust

by hollyand



Series: Let's Get This Over With [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Ficlet, Light-Hearted, M/M, Random & Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyand/pseuds/hollyand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clive Hawke decides that the only way to reduce Kirkwall–Qunari tensions is… to seduce the Arishok. Well, it worked so well on Seneschal Bran, after all.</p><p>Requested by CatsLikeLavender, featuring her sarcastic male mage Clive Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Growing Lack of Disgust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



‘What the Arishok needs,’ Clive Hawke was saying as he walked, ‘is someone who can provide him with some... _relief_. Rugged, manly, bearded, _sexy_ relief.’

            Fenris stared at him. Sometimes he couldn’t make out whether the dark-haired mage was the bravest and most daring man he’d ever met, or the most stupid and reckless one. ‘Hawke. I really don’t think this is a sensible idea.’

            ‘Why not?’ Hawke wasn’t looking at him, but Fenris could tell he was genuinely surprised. ‘The Arishok has already said he has a “growing lack of disgust” for us. In Qunari parlance, that’s practically a proposal.’

            ‘I’m not sure that’s _quite_ what he meant, Hawke.’

            Hawke shrugged. ‘Hey, it’s worth a try. Whatever the Viscount is doing to diffuse tensions isn’t working, so now it’s time to try some methods of my own.’

            Fenris sneered. ‘What – by screwing your way through all the people in power?’

            Hawke smirked at him. ‘You have a better idea, Fenris?’

            Fenris opened his mouth, about to ask if Hawke even had Meredith and Orsino in his sights, then decided that, actually, he didn’t want to know. He shook his head.

            ‘I can’t see the Arishok being anything less than offended at your suggestion, but as long as I’m not involved in anything more than translating your proposal into the Qunari tongue, I suppose I shall go along with this madness for the time being.’

            ‘Excellent!’ Hawke grinned at him with such childlike enthusiasm Fenris almost forgot his own reservations for Hawke’s bizarre plan. ‘I knew I could count on you, Fenris. The Arishok likes you, and if I bring you, he might be more agreeable to my proposals.’

            Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose. Hawke would be the death of him, he just knew it. Sometimes he wished Hawke _wasn’t_ so charming: the man was impossible to say no to. Even if that meant potentially walking into his own suicide. Fenris snorted without mirth.

            Perhaps death-by-Arishok was a fitting punishment for what he’d done to the Fog Warriors all those years ago. Or perhaps death-by-Arishok was a fitting punishment for Clive Hawke and his stupidity and recklessness. Either way, Fenris didn’t rate their chances of making it out alive.

            The forbidding iron gates to the Qunari Compound swung creakily open, and Hawke marched boldly inside, a jaunty spring in his step. Fenris trailed behind him like a man condemned to execution, resigned to his own doom, but Hawke noticed nothing.

            The Arishok was seated high above them on his makeshift throne, looking every inch the fierce warrior-leader he was, surrounded by menacing grey Qunari guards in red warpaint who drew their weapons at their approach. Fenris gulped; Hawke remained utterly unperturbed.

            ‘Let’s get this over with,’ Fenris murmured to Hawke. ‘And quickly.’

            ‘Serah Hawke,’ intoned the Arishok, his voice as hostile as his features. He waited for Hawke to speak.

            ‘ _Arishokost_ ,’ Hawke began, repeating the little bit of Qunlat he’d heard Fenris use when they’d met the Arishok for the first time, years ago. ‘ _Maaras shokra_. _Anaan esaam Qun_.’

            Instead of being impressed, however, the Arishok scowled harder than ever. ‘What do you want, Hawke?’

            Hawke looked surprised that his opening gambit had failed to have the effect he’d hoped. ‘Didn’t what I just said not translate to “Peace, Arishok. There’s nothing to struggle against; victory is in the Qun”?’

            ‘It does,’ the Arishok boomed. He hunched forward in his seat to scrutinise the man more closely; Fenris noticed how much bigger the Arishok’s upper body was compared to the rest of his guard, even despite the bulky red metal armour. He gulped again. The Arishok peered at Hawke, his hard grey eyes boring into the human’s amber ones, while Hawke stood to attention and silently admired the Arishok’s large horns. ‘But,’ the Arishok continued, ‘you are not here for the Qun.’

            ‘Oh, but I _am_ ,’ replied Hawke silkily, and Fenris cringed. ‘Fenris will be able to convey my message better than I could, so… if you will allow him…’

            The Arishok leaned forward. ‘No.’

            Fenris almost laughed in relief.

            ‘That will not be necessary,’ the Arishok rumbled. ‘You will not hire someone more competent than you to carry out your personal work. Not if you are true _basalit-an_.’

            Hawke looked crushed.

            ‘Perhaps I should’ve brought flowers and chocolates,’ he mumbled to himself. The Arishok raised an eyebrow.

            ‘You have not come to deliver a message from your fool of a Viscount?’

            ‘No,’ Hawke admitted. ‘I was here on… strictly personal business.’

            ‘But you have travelled here from the Viscount’s Keep.’

            ‘Well, I, er,’ Hawke looked flustered, ‘had some business to attend to with Seneschal Bran… but I assure you, nothing to do with either the Viscount or Kirkwall–Qunari politics. This was wholly a, er, _man-to-man_ meeting. Just me. And you.’

            The Arishok stared at him, impassive. ‘A strictly personal meeting, man-to-man,’ he repeated in his deep, commanding voice, pondering Hawke’s words.

            ‘Yes,’ Hawke said, looking the Arishok straight in the eye. ‘Would it not… satisfy a demand of your… Qun?’

            ‘You may be _basalit-an_ ,’ the Arishok growled, ‘but you do not know the Qun.’

            ‘But I’d certainly be willing to,’ Hawke replied, eyes sparkling, cheeky crooked grin on his face. ‘I thought we could… foster some cultural understanding. Perhaps we could even exchange some knowledge of,’ his eyes raked over the Arishok’s body as he lowered his voice knowingly, ‘ _human–Qunari_ _swordplay_.’

            Realisation dawned on the Arishok, and he frowned even deeper, looking more fearsome than ever. Hawke, however, remained stood upright before him, his confident gaze never wavering from the hulking mass that represented the feared and respected Qunari leader. Fenris’s eyes flicked between them, awaiting the next move with bated breath. His fingers itched to reach for his sword.

            The Arishok jerked his head at his guards. ‘Leave us.’

            Surprised, the guards stared at him and at each other; on seeing the Arishok remain resolute, arms folded, they obeyed. Smiling gleefully, Hawke took a few steps up the stairs towards the Arishok, who, after checking that his men were suitably occupied and distracted, gestured to his quarters.

            ‘Very well, human,’ he said. ‘Make this worth my while.’

            If Fenris hadn’t been so incredulous, he would have rolled his eyes. Instead he watched, open-mouthed, as the Arishok pulled aside the curtain draped over the entrance to his quarters, and a grinning Hawke bounded inside.

            It was a stunned Fenris who slowly walked over and sat on the steps, although out of habit he remained ever-alert; but judging by the loud pants and grunts coming from the closed curtain, he wouldn’t be needed to defend Hawke’s life. Or even the Arishok’s. A strangled cry here, a straining moan there; Fenris had heard noises that he hoped never, ever, ever to hear again. He covered his ears as the Arishok emitted a particularly loud groan; in response, Hawke yelped in pleasure and giggled, and Fenris wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

            To say Fenris was relieved when it was over was an understatement. They were at it for ages; the sun was casting longer shadows in the compound at a wholly different angle to when they’d first come in.

            Hawke emerged first, dishevelled, knackered, startled and sweaty, but grinning like the cat that got the cream. He limped down the stairs to where a stony-faced and unamused Fenris stood; followed about a minute later by the Arishok, who somehow managed the impossible feat of scowling and smiling all at once.

            ‘ _Panahedan_ , Hawke,’ the Arishok murmured, lowering his toga and brushing himself off. ‘I do not hope you die.’

 


End file.
